


Stop the Presses

by Rehearsal_Dweller



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:05:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27320152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehearsal_Dweller/pseuds/Rehearsal_Dweller
Summary: "You look like you've seen a ghost.""Worse. I met my soulmate."
Relationships: Crutchie/Albert Dasilva, David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 37
Kudos: 151





	Stop the Presses

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not going to link them as a series, because they can stand alone from each other, but this pairs with my previous fic "Imprint" which focuses on the show timeline & the Javid relationship.   
> So here we go, by popular demand: soulmate AU sprace!

The thing about growing up with a huge herd of other kids is that everybody knows your Words. Everybody. There’s no keeping that shit quiet, even if you want to. Not that Race really wants to, but that’s life.

Race’s Words look handwritten – not everybody’s do; Jack Kelly’s are in a tidy newsprint font on his shoulder blade – in a careless scrawl that’s almost illegible. Almost like the hand that wrote them didn’t quite care.

(Race has that thought for the first time at age ten. It floats back into his mind when he’s fifteen and again when he’s sixteen like a knife to the gut.)

_You can stay_.

He can’t help but wonder, growing up, what the Words scribbled just over his knee _mean_. He wonders if they mean he won’t meet his soulmate until after he’s not a newsie anymore, when he’s in need of a new job and place to live. That would make sense, right?

But Race tries not to worry too much about it. After all, soulmates are soulmates. It’s a sure thing – no use fretting or guessing, he’ll find them when he finds them and that will be that.

Still, there’s a little twinge of jealousy in his chest every time one of his friends finds theirs; he may not worry too much over it, but he’s dying to find them.

\--

Spot’s mother hated his Words, and she made no secret of it.

“I don’t like that your soulmate is the kind of girl who curses, Seán,” she told him once. “That’s not the kind of girl you should be bringing into our family.”

(Spot has _I’m a stubborn bastard too, you know!_ branded across his ribcage in an oddly careful hand. He’s not sure bastard really qualifies as a curse, but he’s not about to argue with his mother over it.)

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Spot had replied, because what else was he supposed to say to that?

Spot’s mother isn’t ever going to meet his soulmate, though, so it’s sort of a moot point. The building they’d lived in burned when Spot was ten, and he and his little sister are left alone to fend for themselves. Spot, as the oldest, took it upon himself to decide they were going to be newsies and they were going to stick the hell together.

Spot doesn’t have time for soulmates, not anymore. He’s almost sure he never will again.

\--

Race is fifteen, standing square in front of Spot Conlon. Spot just recently rose to leadership amongst the Brooklyn newsies and has decided to make Race’s life difficult for no good fucking reason.

“I had a deal with Pipes!” Race snaps. “He says I could sell at Sheepshead as long as I wasn’t in anybody else’s way -”

“Well Pipes ain’t around anymore, and you’s in _my_ way,” says Spot, low and even. His arms are crossed over his chest. 

“Look, Spot, I know how this shit goes,” says Race, rolling his eyes. “You’re new to this, and you gotta assert your dominance or whatever. But I ain’t givin’ up a prime sellin’ spot that’cha boys don’t even _want_ just ‘cause you gotta show’em who’s boss.”

“You damn well are,” Spot says. Race knows that Spot can and will soak him given the right motivation, but it’s also hard to be too deeply intimidated by a kid who’s exactly his same age while also being so fucking tiny. If Race is a stringbean, Spot is, like, a sunflower seed. Anyway, they’ve known each other somewhat distantly for a while now, and Race knows Spot just needs showing he can hold his own. 

He’s not Manhattan’s second for nothing.

“Now, Spot, I see that’cha awful stubborn,” Race replies. “But I’m a stubborn bastard, too, you know! And I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Weirdly, that seems to throw Spot. He makes an aborted move toward Race, then curls back in on himself, more hugging himself than crossing his arms intimidatingly. 

“Fine,” Spot says finally, like it physically pains him. “You can stay.”

And then he turns on his heel and walks away from Race as fast as his (short) legs will carry him.

It’s not until later, when Race is walking home, that it hits Race what Spot actually said. 

_You can stay_.

He walks the rest of the way to the lodging house in a daze, then yanks up the leg of his trousers to see the words scrawled so carelessly just above his knee. There they are, just like Spot said them. _You can stay_.

“Racer?” Albert says, kicking him. “You okay?”

“What?” says Race. “Yeah. My - I think my soulmate said my Words today.”

“Oh. Cool. Did’ja tell’em?”

“Nah, I didn’t even catch it at first. Anyway, I don’t think I said his yet, y’know?”

But even as he says it, Race is struck by the sinking, awful feeling that that isn’t even true.

\--

“You look like you’ve seen a fuckin’ ghost,” Hotshot says.

Spot shrugs, turning his slingshot over in his hands. “Worse. I met my soulmate.”

Hotshot whistles. “What’cha gonna do about it?”

“Nothin’,” Spot says firmly. “I don’t think I’ve said his yet, anyway. Bet he doesn’t even know.”

“He?” Hotshot repeats tentatively.

“Yet another reason for Mama to be disappointed in me, I suppose,” Spot says, rolling his eyes. “Got a boy for a soulmate _and_ he curses.”

Hotshot snorts. “If Mama could see you now, I reckon she’d have a lot more to worry about than your stupid soulmate.” She pauses, humming. “Who is it?”

“Some stringbean Manhattan boy,” Spot answers. He tips his head to one side. “Racetrack. You know him, right?”

“Race, really?” says Hotshot. She laughs, which makes Spot smile even though it’s at his expense. Hotshot doesn’t laugh often, and it’s nice to hear; it makes her look and sound her age for once. “He suits you, Seán. You need that kinda energy in your life.”

“Shut up,” Spot says, shoving her. “Nothing’s gonna happen, okay? With everything else I – it’s not a risk or a distraction I can deal with right now.”

Hotshot hums again. “If you say so, boss.”

\--

Race makes a point of getting to know Spot, and by the time he’s sixteen he’d definitely call Spot a friend. Spot hasn’t said anything about Race saying his Words, and Race is allowing him that but he’s pretty sure he has.

He’s pretty sure he did the day they met.

Something about the way Spot’s demeanor had changed, the shift in his bearing – Race is almost certain that he’d said Spot’s Words, and that saying Spot’s words was what pushed Spot into letting him stay on. He’s got no proof of that; Spot’s Words aren’t on any bit of his skin Race has seen, but there’s plenty of skin that doesn’t see the light of day.

He’s managed to mostly put it out of his mind, save the handful of minutes every few weeks he has to spend telling the boys that _no, I ain’t said his yet, stop pesterin’ me!_

It finds its way firmly to the forefront of his mind again for the first time in ages when he watches new kid Davey say Jack’s Words in front of everybody. And everybody knows Jack’s Words, because Jack can’t see his. When they were young and Jack had the time and energy to wonder about his soulmate, he’d had Race or Cruchie or Specs read them to him, like maybe they’d’ve changed since the last time. So Race watches the moment when it clicks behind Jack’s eyes –

“What, you mean like a strike?” Davey says, his brow furrowed.

“You heard Davey,” Jack blurts, and Race is honestly really impressed with how quickly he forms a coherent response, “we’re on strike!”

So yeah, that more than even yesterday’s conversation _about_ soulmates has Racer’s head spinning.

And then they’re divvying up who’s gonna go where to pass the word along and the idea of being the one to go to Brooklyn gives Race a sticky, heavy feeling at the back of his throat, so he hops to his feet and volunteers for Midtown before anybody can suggest he go someplace else.

“Ain’cha friendly with Spot Conlon?” Crutchie says knowingly as they leave Jacobi’s. “How come _you_ wouldn’t go to Brooklyn, huh?”

“Friendly, yeah,” Race replies distractedly. He fiddles with a loose thread on his pocket, trying not to think about the words etched over his knee. “Don’t mean he’d follow me into fuckin’ fire, though. Spot needs a leader to look him in the eye and convince’im. If I go he ain’t comin’.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Crutchie says. It’s unnecessarily cryptic, Race thinks, and he refuses to elaborate.

“Whatever you say, Crutch,” says Race.

\--

Spot has good reasons not to get involved in Jack Kelly’s latest flight of fancy. Sure, this price hike ain’t good for any of them, but there’s a good chance this goes south and Manhattan just fucking scatters, so –

Still, there’s more of a weight in his chest after turning Jack and his new partner away than he’d expected.

Spot isn’t gonna back down on his word, though. If Manhattan can prove they’re in this for real, Brooklyn will back them up. He just hopes, as much as he’d like to deny it, that Race comes through on the other side in one piece.

\--

Things go really, really great and then really, really shit in pretty quick succession.

Somehow, Race can’t quite bring himself to be surprised by this. He really wishes he were.

He is in rough shape, physically speaking, and he’s got a gash across his leg just above his Words. It’s not the worst Race has ever come off a fight, but it is far, far from the best.

Jack is gone. Everyone is politely pretending not to notice the slightly haunted look in Davey’s eyes at that fact.

Crutchie is gone. Everybody is giving Albert a wide berth, because he is well past haunted and somewhere closer to smolderingly furious.

(Spot never showed.)

Race is the sole exception to the ‘give Albert space’ rule, sitting next to him while he curses the Refuge and Snyder and Pulitzer and the World and even Jack (but never Davey). He holds Albert’s wrists tight, restraining him from punching the wall in frustration.

“Ain’t gonna help Crutchie if you hurt yourself,” Race says softly. “Ain’t gonna help anybody.”

“What if I don’t wanna help?” says Albert.

“Sucks,” says Race. “He wouldn’t want you –“

“I don’t fuckin’ care, Racer. I don’t care.”

“You care a lot.” Race keeps his tone gentle, even as Albert is wrestling against him. Almost involuntarily, he rubs his thumb over the spot on Al’s inner wrist where _You should consider trying harder_ is etched in Crutchie’s rough scrawl. “He’s your soulmate, of course you care.”

He doesn’t even choke on how bitter the words taste in his mouth.

\--

Spot doesn’t talk to Race before the rally. There’s too much else going on and he doesn’t want to open that can of worms, because he’s sure there are worms to be had.

And anyway, Race seems busy, deep in conversation with Davey at every turn. Jack Kelly is nowhere to be found.

It turns out, to even Spot’s genuine surprise, that “nowhere to be found” was a preferable state for Jack Kelly. Because somewhere along the line, Jack turned hard on his friends and on – oh, the look on Davey’s face. Spot’s not sure he’d have ever been able to articulate what heartbreak looks like in an expression before, but now he knows.

It’s wide eyes and an open mouth, it’s an involuntary step backward at the sound of his own name, it’s tears glassing over his eyes before they’re blinked away firmly. It’s Davey Jacobs staring blankly after Jack Kelly for a moment, then physically shaking it off and calling their meeting back to order.

Spot has to hand it to him, the kid’s got focus.

He tries to flag down Race once Davey declares their rally over, but the blond is glued to Davey’s side and doesn’t spare a glance for Spot. Spot isn’t sure what he wants to _say_ to Race, but he feels like he should say _something_.

The moment passes.

Tomorrow. He’ll figure out and he’ll find him tomorrow.

\--

Race drags Davey along to the lodging house with the rest of the boys. He doesn’t feel like it’s a good idea for Davey to be alone right now, and anyway Race doesn’t want to be alone right now – not that he’d _be_ alone, precisely, but the people he’d usually gravitate toward are Crutchie (who’s in the Refuge), Albert (who’s a mess), and Jack (who’s a dirty motherfucking traitor who Race never wants to see again). Davey is in the same position as Race is, though for slightly different reasons and to a slightly different degree; he’s been thrust into leadership he’s probably not ready for, and personally betrayed by Jack. Betrayed by his –

“Davey - Davey, what’cha words?” Race asks after they’ve been sitting together in the corner of the dorm for a while, his voice ragged. “I know you don’t like’em, but –“

“Race,” Davey replies, “I don’t see how that’s relevant right now.”

“Please,” says Race. “Please, Davey. I gotta know if you know.”

Race sees in Davey’s eyes the moment when he realizes what Race is saying.

Silently, Davey pushes up his shirt sleeve. His Words are a five-word sentence, neat newsprint text wrapping just above his inner elbow. _Nice to meet you, Davey._

A chill runs through Race at the sight.

“Oh.” He looks up from the Words to meet Davey’s eye. “Oh, Davey. He named you.”

“I wasn’t sure at first,” Davey admits. “To be honest, I’ve really been hoping it was just a coincidence.”

“But it’s not,” Race says. It isn’t a question. “You said his, too, Davey. _What, you mean like a strike?”_

“Those are his?” Davey’s voice is hoarse and quiet. He looks haunted, like the Words themselves are a ghost.

“Yeah,” says Race. “Davey, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, I – yeah,” Davey says. “Thanks.

Davey looks like he might cry, and Race tugs him by the shoulders into a tight hug.

Into Davey’s shoulder, he murmurs, “Mine don’t want me neither, you know.”

“What?” says Davey.

“My soulmate,” Race clarifies. “I told the boys I ain’t said his Words yet, but –“

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s – I’m fine. I just wan’cha to know you ain’t alone, you know?”

“Thanks, Racer.”

Race presses a kiss to Davey’s temple. “We gotta stick together, you’n I.”

“Yeah,” says David, “we do.”

\--

They pull it off, to no one’s shock more than Spot’s.

Jack and Davey have a – a _moment_ , right there in the middle of the goddamn distribution yard. Spot swallows, turning away.

Jack had explained in hushed tones last night why he’d gone scab. That Davey is his soulmate, and Pulitzer had threatened him directly. Spot understands, and yet – well, that’s why he’s never given soulmates much time. Too much risk, not enough reward.

Still.

“Racer! You walkin’ back with me?” Spot calls before he can stop himself. Race looks over from his conversation with Davey, his expression almost startled.

“Yeah, yeah, Spotty. Keep ya shirt on.”

Race says something else quietly to Davey and Jack, then falls into step next to Spot. They walk in silence for a while, then Race says, like he can’t keep it in, “Davey and Jack’s soulmates.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Spot replies. That display would’ve been enough to confirm it even if Jack hadn’t said as much to him out loud.

He wraps his free arm around himself slightly defensively, his hand resting over the spot on his side where his own Words are. 

“We all heard Davey say Jack’s Words,” Race says. “The other day. Felt like a punch to the gut when I realised Jack must’a _known_ , and betrayed us anyway. Betrayed Davey.”

“Soulmates ain’t a guarantee,” says Spot. It’s more for his own sake than Race’s.

“S’posed’ta be,” Race says quietly, the faintest hint of bitterness in his usually bright voice.

“Racer.”

Race stops dead. “Why do you keep me around, Spot, huh? F’you don’t want me?”

“Race -” Spot stops, too, turning to look at the taller boy.

“No. I _know_ you know. So what gives?”

Spot’s gaze drops to Race’s hands, which are fiddling with a loose thread on his carrier bag. “I can’t have a weak spot like that, Race.”

Race’s hands fall to his sides, and Spot risks a glance at his face. Race’s eyes are wide, his mouth half open. 

It’s the first time Spot has openly acknowledged their soulmate bond out loud, although he knows Race knows he’s said Spot’s Words.

“Fuck you, Spot,” Race says, shaking his head. Spot can see glassy tears forming in his eyes. “ _Weak spot -_ ugh.” He throws his hands into the air. “Walk the rest of the way home yourself, I’m selling in Manhattan today. If I never see you again it’ll be too soon.”

He storms away, leaving Spot standing alone, stunned. There’s an ache he wishes desperately he could pretend didn’t have anything to do with Race growing in his chest. 

\--

It takes almost a month after the strike - and, more importantly, his outburst at Spot - for Race to venture back to Brooklyn.

He’s hoping just to spend the day at the racetrack, but he should’ve known he wouldn’t get that far. He barely makes it across the bridge, in fact, before a Brooklyn newsie has him shoved against a wall with his shirt clenched in an iron fist.

“I don’t know what you said to him, Higgins,” Hotshot spits, her expression and posture entirely too intimidating for her barely five foot frame. If Race had any doubts about her blood relation to Spot, the cold glare she’s giving him would confirm the resemblance beyond arguing. “But he’s been so fucking _weird_ since the last time you two talked -”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Race says, moderately honestly. 

“Spot, you dumbass,” says Hotshot. She presses Race harder against the wall. Race is pretty sure he could get out of this if he wanted to, but honestly Hotshot scares him. “He’s been all quiet and introspective and shit, and I _know_ it’s your fault. Fix him.”

“I wasn’t plannin’ on seein’ Spot today, actually,” says Race.

“Oh, I know,” Hotshot says. “Only I figure I know what’s up wit’ the two’a you, and I ain’t puttin’ up with it no more. He’s your soulmate, ain’t he?”

Race nods silently.

“Ugh, _boys_ ,” Hotshot grumbles. “Look, Racer, I don’t wanna get involved in your shit, but if you don’t talk to Spot and snap him outta this weirdass mood, I will personally throw you in the _fucking river_.”

“Yeah, okay,” says Race, “heard. Where is he?”

Which is how he ends up dumped at Spot’s feet by a tiny, angry newsgirl. 

“ _Heeeey,_ Spotty boy,” Race greets awkwardly, getting to his feet. “Hotshot’s pretty damn strong.”

“She gets a lotta practice haulin’ idiots around. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hotshot says you’ve been actin’ weird, and she wanted me to ‘fix it’ like it’s my fault somehow,” Race says as casually as he can.

Spot’s face falls, though. “Not your fault. But because of you.”

“I don’t regret what I said, Spot,” Race says, tucking his hands into his pockets. “If you don’t want me that’s _fine_ , but I don’t have to suffer through it.”

“It’s not I don’t want you, Race,” Spot replies quietly.

“No, you don’t want a weak spot. That’s worse.”

“People I’m close with ain’t _safe!”_ says Spot. He pulls Race by the wrist into an alley, and apparently it’s just a day for getting manhandled by people who are more than a full head shorter than him. “We do the soulmate thing and it puts you in the middle of my shit, and that means you’re in danger. I can’t go takin’ risks with you like that, and I can’t afford the distraction.”

“ _Distraction,”_ Race repeats.

Spot’s grip on Race’s arm tightens. “Are you hearing me, Racer? I want you safe. You’re safer not involved with me.”

“Well it’s a good thing I don’t wanna be involved with you,” Race lies.

“Ain’t just you, anyway,” Spot says in a low voice. 

“What, you got a second soulmate squirrelled away somewhere?”

“Nah,” says Spot. He gives Race a small smile. “Just got more’n soulmates to worry about. There’s a reason Hotshot and I don’t advertise our relationship, either.”

“But she’s still your sister. And I’m still your soulmate.” Race meets Spot’s gaze very carefully. “You can say or not say whatever you want. Those relationships don’t go away.”

“No,” says Spot. “They don’t.” He sighs, breaking eye contact. “I’m sorry, Racer. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t wanted.”

“Well, you did,” Race replies. “I know you’d be happier without a soulmate, Spotty, you don’t have to apologise for it. That’s life, I guess.” He wrenches his arm from Spot’s grip, making back toward the street. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll stay outta your hair. Wouldn’t want you getting distracted.”

Spot calls after him, but Race doesn’t turn around.

\--

“I fucked up,” Spot says, dropping heavily onto the ground next to Hotshot.

She turns a cigarette over in her fingers. “That, Spot, seems like an understatement. I’ve known Race longer than you have, and I’ve never seen him look so sour.”

“What am I supposed to _do_?” says Spot.

“You’re the boss, boss,” Hotshot says, shrugging. “I’m not here to tell you what to do.”

“You’re my baby sister, Niamh,” Spot says, a hint of teasing in his voice that doesn’t fade at the sharp look she gives him. It’s not something he often acknowledges out loud, especially since taking over Brooklyn. “I think it’s your job to boss me around.”

“Oh,” says Hotshot, still looking slightly stunned. “Well, in that case, I think you should go march your stupid butt to Manhattan and talk to him, no bullshit. And no more shutting people out because you care about them.” This last bit is said with a bit of a glare and a sharp elbow to his ribcage.

“Yeah, alright, I hear you.” Spot frowns. “I’m sorry.”

“Go tell Race that.”

“To you, too, Hotshot.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Spot sets out maybe a little too late to really be making the trek all the way to the Manhattan lodging house, but he’s not putting this off. Especially when Race has made it clear he’s not above avoiding Brooklyn for weeks at a time.

“The fuck do you want?” Jack says when he arrives, because of fucking course Jack is the first one to see him.

“Race, is he here?” Spot replies. He summons all of the _do not fuck with me, do not question me_ energy he can, which is a not insignificant amount.

“He don’t wanna see you, Conlon.”

“I need to talk to him, Kelly.”

“Not hap-“

“Jack,” Race’s voice cuts in, and he slips around the older boy to stand sort of between him and Spot, “it’s alright.”

“If you’re sure?” Jack says, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m sure,” Race says. He takes a pointed step toward Spot, and Jack holds his hands up in surrender.

“A’right,” says Jack.

Race waits for Jack to fully disappear back into the building, then crosses his arms. “You have two minutes.”

“I only need one,” Spot says. “Look, Race – I am shit at caring about people. _Shit_. And I’ve always been better off shutting out the world, because that’s the only way you don’t get hurt. But you know what my Words are? ‘I’m a stubborn bastard too, you know!’ I’d never’a known you’d wriggle in through every defense I had, but you did. You waited me out and you pushed me around and nobody’s ever been able to do that before.” Spot doesn’t do anything so uncontrolled as fidget, but he shifts his weight subtly forward. “That scares the hell outta me, Racer. But I shouldn’a made you feel – that is. I do, ah. Like you. Quite a bit. And I regret a lot that I ever left you feelin’ like I didn’t. I don’t want you to get hurt, but that don’t justify hurtin’ you myself.”

“No,” Race says after a long moment. So long it’s got Spot feeling a little antsy. “It doesn’t.”

“I’m sorry, Race.”

“I know.”

“You ever gonna forgive me?”

Race combs his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, probably. But you better fuckin’ earn it.”

That’s honestly better than Spot was hoping for.

He’ll take it.


End file.
